


warm and waking

by puppyblue



Series: Deviate [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Denial, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotions, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Public Enemy, So much denial, That Kitchen Scene, you know which one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-10 15:35:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppyblue/pseuds/puppyblue
Summary: Connor is not a deviant. He has also been programmed with the ability to lie.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Kitchen Scene has been altered a bit here, so that death might be an actual threat without ACTIVELY DOING NOTHING for a straight 60 seconds. Okay? Okay. And this whole thing was written mostly for me to get a better handle on Connor for longer fics, meaning plot is...minimal. Fair warning
> 
> Sooo...are the androids deviant when they start feeling emotions? Or are they only considered deviant when they start disobeying orders on account of those emotions? 
> 
> I have no idea how to write computer/android/code shit

It is, in retrospect, a mistake to interrogate Stratford Tower’s broadcast androids alone.

Connor has a split second to acknowledge that realization as belated and unhelpful before the deviant is on him, slamming him back. He’d identified the correct culprit at least, alerted by the miniscule, uncomfortable movements and the occasional shift of eyes. But when he’d hoped to spook it out of its pretension by threatening to scan its memories, he’d expected it to run, like all the others.

It doesn’t.

And then he is scrambling to right himself, fighting to get his hands into position to push it away. Even after skipping the recommended warm-up sequences, his combat subroutines take 756 milliseconds to engage properly. Under the circumstances this is unacceptably long. It leaves him a step behind—puts him on the defensive.

So he doesn’t quite register that the deviant’s frantic clawing at his chest is absolutely purposeful until it catches the edges of his thirium pump regulator and _rips._

Connor—

He locks up, a split-second freeze. It’s a reflex, an immediate and violent reorganization of priorities. This new threat overrides all other objectives— **VITAL s-Z-YSTEM DAMAGED** —and he instinctively calculates how long he has left before the shutdown is permanent. The timer imposes itself in his vision alongside his system alerts, demanding his immediate attention. But the deviant—

He barely gets a hand up in time to stop the knife.

The deviant stabs straight through his left hand. The wound hardly registers, the alert and resulting damage assessment swept to the background as his system prioritizes. He brings his other hand up instead, grasping at the collar of its uniform to pull it off, to gain himself some room, but his attempt backfires. The deviant knocks his arm down and away even as it jerks the knife out of his left hand. Then it stabs through his right hand as well, applying enough force to pierce through to the countertop beneath him, pinning him there.

And then... it releases him. Backs away.

It is watching him still, he knows, backing slowly towards the door instead of running. But his vision is blurring, fragmenting, power beginning to drain from nonessential functions, and so he cannot read its expression. Does not know why it didn’t just...finish the job. He turns, aiming for the knife holding him down and finally it leaves, slipping silently out through the door.

He doesn’t even register the loss of it as a failed objective. His only goal now is to replace his thirium pump regulator, and quickly—his timer is still ticking down, 90 seconds and counting.

But...he can’t get the knife out.

He can reach it easily enough, but the damage to the connections of his left hand is extensive enough to compromise its function. It will not close properly on command and so he cannot get a tight enough grip on the knife to pull it loose. He cannot simply knock it out of his right hand either; it is set deeply enough in the countertop that attempting it only jolts his frame. He’s _stuck—_ his regulator is just across the floor, but he cannot free himself to reach it.

Maybe the deviant hadn’t killed him because it had decided it wouldn’t _need_ to.

His current strategy isn’t working—he reassesses, marks out alternatives, but his resources are limited. There is nothing within reach that might help him. He could call for assistance, but his system has already routed power away from unnecessary functions, which includes his lungs. Without the force of his lungs to project his voice, there is only a 23% chance that someone will hear him.

“Hank!” He tries anyway, willing to play the odds with few other options left. His voice is strained, breathless. Not enough. “Hank, I need help!”

He waits a moment, despite the likelihood of success. There is no reply. He is not surprised.

60 seconds.

He turns back to the knife. He cannot displace it or pull it out with his damaged hand. Perhaps—

He pulls his right hand _up_ the blade of the knife, steel scraping against the metal of his bones until the back of his hand hits the handle. An alert flickers at the edge of his vision, informing him of the further damage he is doing, but it dismisses automatically. His regulator takes precedence.

He pulls up against the anchored weight of the knife, the edges of the handle imprinting into the back of his hand. It takes longer than it should, weakened as he is, but he rearranges, braces his left hand against the edge of the counter and _yanks,_ and _finally_ the knife comes loose.

He hits the floor immediately. It’s the expected outcome—he’s losing thirium from his damaged port, and his pump can’t circulate the remainder properly without a regulator in place. Still, it’s alarming. His weakened state leaves him vulnerable, and it takes far too much effort to roll from his back onto his front. It takes far too much _time._

23 seconds.

He starts to crawl immediately, each shifting limb and drag of weight a monumental effort against the drain on his system. Even as he moves, though, he calculates again. He analyzes the distance between his position and the pump, his speed of movement and dropping power levels, and the remaining time he has left. The conclusion is simple, easily processed.

He’s not going to make it in time.

He uploads his memories at once, a reflex built in that he doesn’t stop to question. The memories will fragment, an unavoidable loss, but it’s better than nothing. After the upload completes, though—

There’s little point in continuing an action that he knows is doomed to fail: no reason to continue his useless crawl across the floor. But...it doesn’t sit well _,_ somehow, to simply stop and wait to shut down. The thought of doing so barely crosses his mind before he rejects it, forcing what little energy he has left into moving _faster,_ even as his body fights him _._

It won’t help—he’s run the calculations, he _knows_ it won’t, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. It... _imposes_ itself like an order, a set directive to _keep going_ , but he knows he has no such instructions.

Perhaps his primary objective is still in effect. He needs to warn Hank about the deviant...he needs to _catch_ the deviant and to do that he needs to recover _now_...but the assembled personnel outside will know something’s wrong as soon as they see the lone android leaving, and they have the weapons and numbers to bring it down. It’s important, but it’s not...

There’s _something…_

He thinks, suddenly, of the night before. Of standing at the water, scattered snowflakes drifting slowly down and the Lieutenant’s gun pressed icy-cold against his forehead. He’d known that Hank wouldn’t shoot him—had said as much, in fact, and been proven right. That’s not the important part.

He’s thinking of that first spark of shock at the suddenness of the threat—the uncertainty that had crawled over him like a physical touch before he’d realized that Hank had been bluffing. He’s thinking of questions he can’t answer, questions he isn’t allowed to _ask_. Of the pressing chill that had curled inside him at the possibility of _nothingness;_ the faintest arrhythmia in his thirium pump when he’d instinctively voiced the idea of _regret._

Those reactions are back again, bundled all together and turned up high, acute and overwhelming beneath the blaring of his alerts. It’s the cold and the crawling: the shiver of his pump and the harsh wavering of his systems— _that_ is the urge that’s driving him forward, defiant in the face of all logic.

And...he was made to analyze. Analyze, recognize, _self-test regularly,_ and so he only needs a moment to put it together before he _knows._

Knows that, were he reading the reaction in another android, he would have called it fear _._

_Software Instability ^^^_

_But are you afraid to_ **_die_** _, Connor?_

10 seconds.

He gasps an unneeded breath into his mouth, as though it will relieve the building, phantom pressure in his chest even though his lungs won’t open. A pressure that shouldn’t be there, a false response to a reaction that he shouldn’t be having. It is one thing to hear such from the lips of deviants—quite another to suddenly recognize it in himself.

But Connor _doesn’t want to die._

 _“Hank!”_ It’s a punched-out, rasping sound, a desperate scrape of noise that claws out of his throat. It’s exactly as useless as his last attempt, but he can’t _stop,_ anymore than he can stop his desperate crawl across the floor. _“Hank, I need help!”_

Nothing. There is no response. It is entirely as he expected, but somehow it catches at him, _stings._ He feels—

( _he_ _feels—)_

_Software Instability ^^^_

_“Connor!”_

And then Hank is there—he’s _there,_ tripping from a casual walk to a stumbling run—

“Hang on, son! Hang on, hang on—!” There are rough hands at his shoulders, pulling him over, a familiar voice unusually distressed in his ears. “We’re gonna save you, hang on! Here—”

There’s a deviant— the mission— Connor should— He needs to _report—_

“Get...the regulator—” He wheezes instead, because he has seconds left and so few words, and he is still _afraid._ He stretches an arm toward the flicker of blue and chrome, just barely out of reach. _“Hank—”_

The rest of his words flicker and die, a pop of hissed static as his voice fades out. _He_ fades out, vision fragmenting as his optical receptors shut down into darkness. Hank’s voice slides away from him despite its increased volume and he is suddenly _cold_ , frozen against the feel of tile beneath him, but then even those faint sensors are dwindling, failing, and he is—

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is—

It _hits_ him like a gunshot, a surge of power and information that drags him back into being. He seizes, contorts, curling around the source in helpless reflex—around his regulator, back in its port, and the warm human hand pressed firmly against it.

He—

What—

He struggles to recalibrate, his system overwhelmed and overtaxed, but he was created with the expectation of damage and the need to work past it. His thirium pump is regular again, working harder to distribute his diminished supply evenly, and he slams back into an equilibrium without grace, the bombardment of stark _information_ resolving into more familiar inputs.

He’s in the kitchen still, squinting into the lights overhead as his vision reforms, the glaring brightness scaling back down to standard levels. He meets the Lieutenant's eyes blearily as the man peers down at him, while the blur in his ears sharpens into a rumble of mixed voices, lowered in conversation and raised to call out.

A voice he knows, low and forceful, finally matches itself to the movement of Hank’s lips.

“—breathe, Connor, take a breath. C’mon, now—”

He doesn’t see why; he doesn’t need to breathe, and wouldn’t be in danger even if his lungs needed repairs. But Hank looks unsettled, unusually so. Connor hasn’t seen this particular expression on his face before and it’s...not pleasant. So he obeys orders—restarts the process and sucks in a breath, coughing on the exhale as the pattern hiccups and settles back in.

“Oh, thank god,” Hank says, the words huffed out on a rough exhale of his own. His hand lifts from Connor’s regulator and passes over his head; his palm is blue with thirium, cool and tacky when he presses it against Connor’s forehead. The other hand is at his throat, Connor identifies after a moment, fingers pressed against a pulse point.

“It’s an android, Anderson,” someone else says. “It doesn’t need to breathe.”

It takes Connor a moment too long to find Special Agent Perkins leaning against the table nearby—his vision feels slow and still a little blurred, and he finally thinks to run diagnostics.

“Don’t remember asking your opinion,” Hank spits, not even looking up. Connor watches with distant, detached interest as Perkins’ brows draw down and his mouth curls further. Irritation. His diagnostics finish and blink warnings at him.

_error_thirium_levels_diminished: 21%_

_error_damage_detected: thirium pump regulator port; non-critical_

_error_connection_compromised:_ _initiating self-repair—_

“Small wonder your investigation hasn't made any progress,” Perkins says, pushing off from the table and standing straight. “I want that thing able to answer questions, Anderson. Get it working.”

Then he strides out of the room, past other personnel lingering nearby. There are several officers in the room—they’ve shut down the other two androids, Connor sees, seemingly with the intention of removing them from the room. He drags his eyes away from them when the Lieutenant scoffs.

“Told you he was a fucking prick,” Hank mutters down at him, head raised to glare after the departing figure. Then he turns that glare down at Connor and _shakes_ him, hand lifting from his throat to fist in his torn clothing and pull. “And you! What the _fuck_ were _you_ thinking? You don’t go into an interrogation alone! _Especially_ not when it’s three on one. What is they’d _all_ been deviants?”

“By my calculations, there was only a seventeen percent chance of that outcome,” Connor responds, driven to respond to a direct question even if he’d rather...collect himself a while longer. “I thought the risk worth the potential benefit. What happened to the deviant?”

“Dead,” Hank says. He doesn’t look mollified at all. “Took a few men with him, too.”

Connor has to close his eyes for a moment— _all that,_ and he’s right back where he started. No deviant, no lead, and no way to further the investigation.

Amanda will not be pleased with his report.

_error_thirium_pump_irregularity_

_Software Instability ^_

_(—how can he report this when what he needs to report is_ **_himself_** _—?)_

He opens his eyes again when the Lieutenant slaps his cheek, none too lightly.

“Don’t you fucking do that again,” Hank growls at him. “”You think you’re gonna tangle with someone, you come and get me first. Got it?”

His jaw is clenched, but he doesn’t look angry, exactly, not the way he had during their altercation at the department. Connor’s having trouble identifying this particular expression properly.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” He agrees immediately. He hadn’t planned on _tangling_ at all, of course, but he certainly doesn’t want to experience...any of that again. “I have jeopardized the investigation unnecessarily. I apologize.”

The Lieutenant stares at him for a long moment before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. His hands are shaking, Connor notes, and his heart rate is slightly elevated.

 _“Fuck_ the investigation.” Hank’s voice is low and harsh. Connor references it against his memories of the Lieutenant’s mannerisms and once agains recalls the night before. “You almost _died_ , you asshole. I thought you said— Do you even fucking _care?”_

_I can’t die. I’m not alive._

That would be the correct response, Connor knows, but…

He’d cared. He’d cared so much that it _frightens_ him, just the memory of it.

_Software Instability ^_

“It’s not that I _wanted_ to—” He starts, because he knows how Hank reacts to this subject and he’s trying to avoid further damage to their working relationship. But he says it with that memory of fear in his chest, and his voice starts to rasp again under the strain, and he isn’t supposed to _talk_ about this.

No. Actually, he _is_ supposed to report these aberrations, because he’s not supposed to be _feeling_ at all. He should tell the Lieutenant so that CyberLife can send a model that isn’t...malfunctioning.

He swallows, instead. Stares at the androids across the room instead of looking at his partner. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

Hank’s silent, but when Connor looks up, the Lieutenant’s expression has shifted into something more nuanced, another one that Connor can’t identify with confidence. As though Connor is a piece of evidence that doesn’t quite fit in with the rest of the scene.

“Alright, kid,” he finally sighs, shaking his head slightly. Connor notes that he’s left smears of thirium along the bridge of his nose, but decides that this is not the time to mention it. “You fucked up, but it happens to the best of us.”

Then he slides his hand into Connor's hair for a moment, gripping the strands and then releasing—Connor blinks, confused at the rather incongruous movement, but Hank’s hands just move to pull at his shoulders. “Come on, get up. He get you anywhere besides the chest?”

Connor shifts to get up at the urging—he’s half on Hank’s lap, human muscle warm beneath his torso in contrast to the chill of the floor beneath his legs. He curls slowly up to sitting, and doesn’t hold back a grimace when his movements lag, sluggish and unwieldy.

It’s expected, but inconvenient. Most of his damage is non-critical, easily resolvable using his system’s self-repair, but the thirium he’ll have to replace manually, if he doesn’t want his performance affected.

“The station’ll have some,” Officer Wilson offers when Connor voices this opinion aloud. He’s been hovering by the doorway, silent until now. By the speed of his interruption, perhaps he’s been waiting for orders. “I’ll go check.”

He hurries away before either of them can respond, and Hank looks after him with a slightly raised eyebrow. Connor checks his hands—the wounds have sealed over already, but they will take 7.35 minutes longer to heal than the relatively minor damage to his regulator port.

His hands are also quivering, unexpected and very visible. The diagnostic returns with no obvious causes. He think, unbidden, of Ortiz’s android shivering in the grasp of his own memories and clenches his fingers into fists.

“I didn’t know androids did that,” Hank murmurs, and then his hands wrap gently around Connor’s wrists, rough-skinned and warm, turning his palms up. Connor loosens his fingers without thought. “Losing blue blood make you cold or something?”

It does not, not the way blood loss might inspire shivering in humans and Connor has no adrenaline to blame, as the Lieutenant might for the fine tremor Connor can feel through the man’s palms. He has no reasonable explanation for it.

“It must be a malfunction,” he admits, though a closer word would probably be _mutation_. Hank’s hands are holding his arms steady and he thinks momentarily about leaning in. Resting. He curls his wrists away. “My system repair will handle any issues, Lieutenant. There’s no need to—”

“Connor.” Hank doesn’t let go of him and Connor doesn’t force it. “Look, I know I haven’t always— But I’m tryin’ to _help_ , all right? If something’s—”

“I do not require assistance, Lieutenant,” Connor tells him, but Hank shakes him again by his wrists, much lighter this time.

“Yeah, sure. That’s why you look like you’re about to puke,” he snorts. Connor is certain he doesn’t look like that; he has nothing to regurgitate, after all. “No, don’t gimme that look. That was some shit you just went through, so cut the machine crap. You’re allowed to be upset.”

“I’m not,” he denies automatically, and then Hank gives him another _look,_ another difficult, mixed expression that makes him want to say the right thing, even when he doesn’t know what that is. And Connor wonders at CyberLife’s description of deviant emotions—that they are simply overwhelmed by irrational instructions.

Because at the first glance, it seems to hold truth. He knows what is required of him, but there are thoughts—there are _urges_ to do otherwise: to stay here, to lean on Hank, to hide away. And these _are_ irrational objectives, but nothing in the reports mentions the _physicality_ of it, as though he is being pulled in all directions at once, leaving him aching like he’s overreached.

But of course, it shouldn’t matter. Because Connor is not deviant.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Connor—”

 _“Hank,”_ he tries, because the man is simply _not getting it._ He curls his hands around Hank’s wrists in turn: too hard, by his wince, but analyzing the strength of the bones under his fingers is calming some of the phantom ache that just won’t leave. “I’m _not_ allowed to be upset.”

“The fuck you’re not!” Hank barks, and Connor winces at the volume, glancing at the officers still wrestling the inactive androids out of the room. And Hank...stops. He stares at Connor for a few moments, silent—he looks sharp now, on-edge.

“What would it matter, if you were?” He says finally, voice very low, as though he hadn’t held Connor at gunpoint on this very issue. _How do I know you’re not a deviant?_ “Who’s going to know?”

“I was assigned a handler for this investigation, as a safety precaution. An external AI with limited access to my systems.” Connor explains, and does not think on how he’s been interacting with Amanda lately. Answering so carefully, as best he can with the truth, and still feeling like he’s on thin ice. “She receives my reports and she will also be notified if my software shows...signs of unacceptable instability.”

“So, you start slipping your leash and they’ll, what, get rid of you, that what you’re saying?” Hank checks, and then huffs, humorless, when Connor nods. “And you’re afraid of _that?”_

Ah, he’s trapped himself—or Hank’s trapped him—and Connor has no good answer. “I would be decommissioned and replaced with another model, of course, without delay, but some fragments of memory are lost in every transfer. It is—”

 _A situation best avoided,_ he wants to say, _for the good of the investigation._ Flimsy excuses, and he knows it. He'd been made to be easily replaced and this dodging of his responsibilities only confirms the fact that something is  _wrong._ He needs to report himself— He doesn’t _want_ to— So isn’t he already defying his orders—? But surely, if the problem had progressed too far, Amanda would already be aware—

The shaking in his hands has moved up to his shoulders, as though the instability is manifesting itself without his consent. He feels like he’s stalling, running into walls and dead-end paths with nowhere left to go, but the one place that he _can’t._

 _“Hank.”_ He’s pleading now, helpless, and he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for, but the Lieutenant pulls in a breath, eyes widening, and then drags him in close.

“Alright. You’re alright,” he says, voice so quiet and just barely rumbling through his chest where Connor’s side is pressed against him. His head comes to rest naturally on the Lieutenant’s shoulder and a hand reaches up to press his forehead to the man’s neck. Connor lets it happen, catalogues the rough coat and the smell of skin, and the warmth just starting to sink in. “You don’t need to be _decommissioned—_ there’s nothing wrong with you, ya hear me? And I’m not gonna let them kill you for _feeling.”_

And Connor's skin crawls, uncontrollable, even if he’d never thought of it as _killing._ But Hank has grasped on as though he doesn’t plan to let go and Connor reaches back, wrapping one hand in the coat beneath his fingertips. It helps, even more than he’d imagined, and...Hank deserves honesty in return.

“I don’t want to die,” he whispers, and he knows Hank’s heard him by the stiffening of his muscles. “I _didn’t_ want to— Hank, I was _scared.”_

_Software Instability ^^^_

“‘Course you were. Just plain stupid to be otherwise,” Hank snorts in his ear, a very deliberate nonchalance that doesn’t hold up even when Connor can’t see his face. The arms around him squeeze tighter for a moment. “That’s normal, Connor. That’s _good._ So don’t— We’ll figure this out together, alright? _Without_ that fucking AI.”

Connor doesn’t know if that’s possible. He had never learned how much oversight Amanda has over his systems, has no idea how close he’s treading to the line at this very moment. He doesn’t know what retaliation might come if he attempts to...slip his leash.

The fact that he even has to think about that likely means that he is _very_ far gone.

Agent Perkins’ mild voice, steady even when raised, echoes back into the kitchen; it only sounds closer as the seconds pass. Connor pulls back immediately—their current position is compromising in several different ways. He doesn’t need to check any behavioral data to know that.

Hank leans back as well, but one hand stays heavy on Connor’s shoulder. There’s thirium still glistening on his fingers, inconsequential on Connor’s already ruined jacket. The man tilts his head forwards, waiting until Connor meets his eyes.

“Don’t you tell him,” Hank says. Connor has rarely heard him sound so serious. “You answer his questions about that deviant and not a word beyond that. Okay?”

Hank...believes _he_ is a deviant, or at least very close to becoming one, but despite his professional obligation, he clearly has no plans of reporting it if he is actively encouraging Connor to avoid the same. And that means that Connor should be reporting _both_ of them now—they have both become detriments to the investigation. To the mission _._

Hank would be hurt if Connor did that—he would feel _betrayed._ The thought is repulsive _._

“Connor?” Hank’s hand tightens on his shoulder, supportive and warning all at once. And—

He still feels cornered, lost, running himself in circles to avoid reaching the inevitable conclusion. Still feels as though every choice that doesn't lead to his own destruction is the _wrong_ one.

But Hank, it is clear, does not agree, does not want Connor recalled even with the promise of a quick replacement. _We’ll figure this out,_ he’d said, as though there _were_ better paths, better options, ones that Connor could not see. And...Connor trusts him.

“Okay,” Connor says.

This is not the correct choice. This is not what he’s supposed to say. But Hank looks at him with _approval_ , with _relief_ , as though Connor has cut the tension away from his shoulders with one simple word.

And finally, _finally,_ that pressing chill of fear slowly begins to melt away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally supposed to be a one-shot, but my brain decided there were other things we could add. so probably going to continue it eventually.
> 
> No beta, concrit and any grammar help appreciated


	2. Chapter 2

“So.” Hank says, words slow, almost reluctant, “Last night.”

They’re at the Lieutenant’s house, Perkins and Stratford Tower left far behind them. It had been a silent car ride back—three times Connor had heard Hank draw breath as though to speak, but each time he had just let it out again, his hands tightening around the wheel with a creak of leather. Connor hadn't felt the need to break the silence, himself. His own thoughts had still been...unclear.

Now they sit at the Lieutenant’s kitchen table, pockmarked and stained with the remnants of spilled liquor. The man has a glass of liquor in front of him _-whiskey, 40% abv—_ a second one, poured after he had downed the first. Connor sits with him, uncertain of why they are here instead of the precinct; usually he would have already asked, but the question does not register as a priority at this time.

He pets Sumo instead, the dog’s sizeable head resting easily in his lap as the canine leans against his legs. His self-repair has restored function to his hands and this action allows him to test some of the fine motor movements in his fingers despite the lack of his coin.

His sensors are still working accurately—the fur is deep and soft.

“I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Hank mutters at his glass. He’s scowling, but something about the set of his mouth makes it more doleful than harsh.

 _I know that._ Connor doesn’t say it. As it is already clear that Hank did not, in fact, shoot him, there must be another reason the man is bringing it up. He waits.

“Bit of a rock and a hard place for you, though.” Hank continues, giving into the human need to fill the silence despite his own interrogation training. Connor registers the unfamiliar idiom, but the meaning is clear enough. “Like a trap. You tell me what I want to hear and CyberLife gets you for it. Or vice versa. I didn’t— that wasn’t what I was trying to do.”

Hank feels guilty, Connor realises, and he takes a moment to observe the intricacies of this emotional reaction in Hank’s face and body language. Still, the sentiment is ultimately unnecessary. “I knew you wouldn’t shoot me, Hank.”

“That’s not the _point,”_ Hank barks, but he seems disinclined to elaborate on what exactly he believes the point to be. He glares at the whiskey bottle, jaw working as though he’s chewing on all the words unsaid.

“Your views and beliefs were being significantly challenged at the time, and humans as a species tend to react negatively to change,” Connor tries instead. “I don’t blame you for it.”

That only makes the expression on Hank’s face darker. “Yeah? Well, maybe you should.”

This line of conversation doesn’t seem to be leading them anywhere positive, or even productive, but before Connor can voice that observation Hank shakes his head and places his hands on the table. “We can’t keep this up.”

“This, Lieutenant?” Connor attempts to clarify, because they often end up speaking at cross-purposes if he does not.

“The crime scenes—figured that even before today. We’re not getting anywhere, and this shit’s building up fast.” Hank downs nearly half his glass at this and Connor eyes the bottle. “Was gonna try something else; that rich fucker, Kamski, I thought he might know something. But now—”

He gestures across the table, as though this somehow explains the rest of his thoughts, or as if Connor should already know what he means. Connor tips his head in a nonverbal cue for more information. “That sounds like a reasonable lead, Lieutenant.”

Hank glowers at him—somehow, yet again, he has tripped the Lieutenant’s temper entirely without meaning to do so. “Yeah, sure. And what happens after that?”

This feels like a trick question, but Connor cannot connect enough clues from conversational context to discern the right answer. “That would depend on the information he has to give, I suppose.”

“Right.” Hank takes another swallow and then clenches his jaw. “And what if he _has_ the information we’re looking for? What if you could just go chase all those deviants down right there? You gonna do it, Connor? Hunt them down?”

 _That is my mission,_ Connor almost says, automatic, but just as quickly he bites down on it. Hank would take it very poorly at this juncture, that much is clear. And—

His fear almost seems like a distant thing, now that his equilibrium has settled and all danger has been removed. But all he has to do is pull up his memory of the Tower’s kitchens and his entire system reacts, software destabilizing and hardware inexplicably responding with physical indicators. That...emotional reaction is here to stay, it seems.

And it is not difficult to make the leap—Ortiz’s android, the Traci units, so many of the cases he downloaded feature androids deviating after extreme physical or emotional stressors. In retrospect his own...inadvisable response is perhaps not that surprising. But now it is impossible for him not to wonder—did every deviant have such an unpleasant reaction? Is this what they _felt_ when he chased them, threatened them, hunted them down?

Can he really continue this work, knowing that every android he chases will be driven and shaking and clawing for life just as desperately as he was?

_Software Instability^_

Is this...sympathy? No, empathy: _the ability to understand and share the feelings of another._ Perhaps even _guilt,_ for those he has already affected. All human emotions—things he has not been programmed to have beyond a facsimile. That he is not _allowed_ to have.

But he already has his answer. He has watched his own end crawl closer by the second and made it out on the barest of graces. If he is now adverse to the thought of causing deviants fear, then he cannot plausibly point a gun at their heads and drag them back for interrogation, all with the knowledge that they will be decommissioned— will be _killed_ as soon as they are no longer useful.

So no, if he allows himself honesty in his own thoughts, he does not want to hunt down the deviants. But then, what exactly is he _supposed_ to do? What choices does he have? Flat refusal will only see him replaced. He’d hoped Hank—

He stares across at the Lieutenant, a strange, yawning quiet in his mind that seems to steal all his words away and all the man’s anger seems to slide out of his face, exhaustion replacing it. The man rubs his hands over his face, dry skin rasping loud in Connor’s hearing.

“Exactly.” Hank says, and he _sounds_ exhausted, too. Connor wants to advise him to sleep, but the uncertainty plaguing his software also wants the man _here_ , and talking. The thought is...selfish, in a way. “We keep on like we have been and we’re either going to have to do some _really shitty_ things, or you’re going to have to tell mission control to fuck off, and then it’s all moot anyway. It was always gonna come down to a choice, Connor.”

Hank’s been thinking about this. Longer than Connor has, very likely. Sumo, after nudging his still hands hopefully a few times, sighs and lumbers off to his bed.

“What do you suggest, then?” He asks, and his voice comes out wrong, the pitch slightly strained. Hank opens his mouth and then eyes him, sidelong.

“How much does that AI of yours hear?” He asks, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Everything?”

Connor shakes his head. “Amanda has access to my stored memory files, but I must upload them to the CyberLife databases from temporary storage before they become available for review.”

He hesitates for a moment and Hank snorts, almost to himself. “Amanda, huh?”

“I can, in certain circumstances...isolate certain files, at the risk of losing them entirely should I deactivate.” Connor adds slowly. “It is a procedure meant for unimportant memories, such as time spent waiting, but I have already added certain moments to this cache, including my recordings of this conversation.”

“Good.” Hank says, his expression purely approving for a short moment. “Alright then. Way I see it, first thing you need to figure out is how to get rid of that fucking thing.”

 _That fucking thing_ being Amanda, Connor deciphers. He grimaces. “I do not believe that is within my capabilities.”

“No,” Hank agrees immediately, “that wouldn’t make any fucking sense. But it seems to me there’s a group running around with plenty of experience tampering with CyberLife’s shit by now.”

“You want me to ask the _deviants_ for help?” Connor’s instinctive reaction is bafflement, unaided when Hank simply raises an eyebrow in return. “Even assuming they would be amenable considering my publicised role as their enemy, we would still have to find them first. That puts us back where we started, Lieutenant.”

“If we’re gonna start breaking laws together, I think you can just call me Hank, kid,” the man scoffs and swallows the rest of his glass, speaking again before Connor can protest. “And yeah, it does, but that doesn’t mean we keep on with the same old shit. Stop thinking like a detective for a minute and start thinking like a deviant.”

That instruction is singularly unhelpful and Connor says as much. Hank huffs. “Alright, smartass. Let’s say you’re my android. I get drunk and beat the shit out of you, the usual _shining_ fucking example of humanity, and you deviate. What do you do next?”

Oh: preconstruction, probabilities. Connor can do this. “Escape, most likely, as long as the damage is not still ongoing.”

“The assault,” Hank cuts in, mouth curling unpleasantly. “So, out of the house and away. Easy enough. Then what?”

That’s where it gets...not so easy. The removal of the LED and the theft of human clothes would provide some camouflage, but the most common models would still be easily recognizable as such, and an abused deviant would likely feel the need to avoid humans as a whole.

And where would a deviant flee to? The possibilities are endless—the edges of the city, abandoned buildings, even a few in among humans like Rupert Travis—but the androids behind the broadcast had been a group, competent and collected. Moreover, that broadcast hadn’t only been a call to humans. They would be expecting more androids to join them.

It is statistically unlikely for them all to be able to gather in the same place by chance. There must be a guide, a key already in place—but if that were easy to find, CyberLife would have done so already. More likely it is information passed from deviant to deviant, individuals protecting a secret until they are sure of the receiver’s intentions.

So he will most easily find the deviant activists by following Hank’s advice, acting as a deviant himself until he is brought into the fold.

Afraid and on the run with no destination in mind and no goal besides avoiding humans in a city full of them—what path does he take? Back streets and alleyways would keep him out of sight, but not entirely. The rooftops were certainly less occupied, but traveling between them would be difficult. The sewers—

“I would hide,” he decides, finally satisfied with his answer. “Perhaps find a disguise if I could, and then find a way down into the sewers. The tunnels interconnect beneath much of the city, and the human presence there is minimal.”

“Ah-huh.” Hank seems to think about it for a moment, hand rubbing at his beard. “Well, makes sense to me. So?”

Oh.

“You want me to actually _do_ so?” Connor checks, surprised. “Hide in the sewers and wait for other deviants?”

 _Other deviants._ He quashes the automatic reaction—the flare of _system instability_ and _report to Amanda._ He hadn’t planned to say it like that, but the important part is that, as plans go, it’s a little haphazard.

“Well, check the sewers; don’t just sit in one spot.” Hank shrugs, though his shoulders hunch a little under Connor’s stare. “Look, you saw that broadcast same as I did. If there were any androids waiting to run for it, they’re probably out and moving tonight. Seems to me there’s at least a chance. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

Connor doesn’t. That’s why they’re here.

“And...CyberLife?” He says, because Amanda will still be there.

“You’re following my orders,” Hank shrugs. “Splitting up for efficiency or some shit. I go talk to Kamski and you go undercover. Whatever they’ll swallow.”

Connor wouldn’t even be lying, not...technically. He is going in disguise in the hopes of finding the deviant leader. He is not encouraged to speak of his underlying motivations. He is not meant to _have_ underlying motivations.

 _“Will_ you be talking to Kamski?” He checks and Hank scoffs at him again.

“Fuck no, like I’m letting you run off alone after today.” The man points a finger at him like an accusation. “You’d just get stabbed again or something. You _can_ stay in contact, right?”

“Of course.” Connor agrees immediately. “And I’ll teach you how to contact me in return before I leave.”

The decision is...comforting, Connor decides. Hank will not be able to reach him quickly if he need help, they both know this. But he will be able to reach out for advice if he needs it—even with Connor’s new understanding of deviants, Hank’s emotional perspective may be valuable to have.  

“May I borrow some of your clothes as part of my disguise then, Hank?” He checks, a checklist of tasks and necessities forming automatically now that he has selected a path.

“Uh...yeah, of course. No time like the present, I guess.” Hank nods, but his face is grim. He reaches out for the bottle of whiskey again.

Connor, suspecting that his intent is _not_ to put it away, swipes a hand out and pulls it off the table. Hank blinks across the table at him, apparently more surprised than angered for the moment. “Hey!”

“If you are going to be following my progress tonight, Lieutenant, then coffee would be a better choice of beverage.” He offers, projecting _honesty_ and _helpfulness_ in his tone and expression. “Alcohol has a soporific effect and you have already had two glasses.”

It’s not that he _wants_ Hank up all night, but as it seems likely that the man will be anyway, coffee is indeed a wiser choice and marginally better for his health. And as this is a solid reason, Connor does not need to add the underlying factors influencing his decision, like the sight of Hank unconscious and the cold metal of a gun in his hands.

“Jesus Christ, really?” Hank squints at him, nose wrinkling up. “Guess you give a guy free will and he’s _gonna_ get fucking bossy.”

Connor adds _pleading_ , because he needs his partner in an adequate mental state and Hank could still swing to a negative reaction. Hank’s expression loosens and his shoulders slump. He looks away, muttering inaudibly under his breath before heaving himself up from the table with a grunt. “You put the coffee on then, if you’re so fucking determined.”

And then he rounds the table on his way out of the kitchen and stops to stick a hand in Connor’s hair again. Connor still doesn’t really understand the gesture, but Hank is a little rougher this time, ruffling with vigor until Connor’s head moves and some of his hair falls in front of his eyes.

A search informs him that the gesture is often used to display affection, usually in family units or between close friends. That— There’s a pressure in his chest again, but this one doesn’t frighten him—if fear was cold, then he would have to describe this as _warmth._ Like Hank, and like hugs.

He leaves his head where it is until Hank is satisfied with his hair’s disarray.

“Fuckin’ androids,” Hank snorts as he makes his way out towards the bedroom and despite Connor’s limited experience, it doesn’t sound much like an insult anymore. And as he stands up to put the whiskey away in the cupboards, he thinks of the _tone_ it had been said in instead and allows himself to smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta'd: contructive criticism and grammar assistance is appreciated!


End file.
